EF06 - The State Counsellor (12 page)

'Are you alone here?' the visitor asked.

'There's the cook. She's sleeping in the boxroom. But you really mustn't stay here.'

'So the police came, took a sniff around and went away again?' The blond-haired man laughed. "Well, isn't that just miraculous?

'In Bryansk the cats on Railway Street Caught a sparrow they could eat. They licked a lot and licked a lot, But didn't eat a single jot.'

The jolly young man moved so that his back was towards the State Counsellor, while Larionov was obliged to stand facing the door.

The intriguing guest made a movement of his hand that Fandorin couldn't see and the engineer suddenly gasped and staggered back.

'What's wrong, Iscariot - afraid?' the caller enquired in the same flippant tone as ever.

Sensing that something was wrong, Erast Petrovich jerked the door open, but just at that moment there was the sound of a shot.

Larionov howled and doubled over; the shooter glanced round at the sudden clatter behind him and raised his hand. It was holding a compact, burnished-steel Bulldog. Fandorin dived under the shot and hurled himself at the young man's feet, but the caller leapt back nimbly, striking his back against the door jamb, and tumbled out into the hallway

Fandorin sat up over the wounded man and saw he was in a bad way: the engineer's face was rapidly turning a ghasdy shade of blue.

'I can't feel my legs,' Larionov whispered, gazing into Erast Petrovich's eyes in fright. 'It doesn't hurt at all, I just want to sleep

'I've got to catch him,' Fandorin said rapidly. 'I'll be quick, then I'll get a doctor straight away'

He darted out into the street and looked to the right - nobody there; he looked to the left - there it was, a fleeting shadow moving rapidly in the direction of Kudrinskaya Street.

As the State Counsellor ran, two thoughts came into his mind. The first was that Larionov wouldn't need a doctor. To judge from the symptoms, his spine was broken. Soon, very soon, the poor engineer would start making up for all his sleepless nights. The second thought was more practical. It was no great trick to overtake the killer, but then how would he deal with an armed man when he himself had no gun? The State Counsellor had not expected this to be a day of risky undertakings and his trusty Herstahl-Baillard (seven shots, the latest model) had been left at home. How useful it would have been just at this moment!

Erast Petrovich was running quickly, and the distance between him and the shadow was rapidly shortening. That, however, was no cause for rejoicing. At the corner of Ss. Boris and Gleb Street the killer glanced back. With a sharp crack, his gun spat a tongue of flame at the pursuer and Fandorin felt a hot wind fan his cheek.

Suddenly two more swift shadows sprang straight out of the wall of the nearest house and fused with the first, forming a nebulous, squirming tangle.

'Ah, you lousy scum, kick me, would you!' someone shouted in an angry voice.

By the time Erast Petrovich got close, the commotion was already over.

The jovial young man was lying face down with his arms twisted behind his back, swearing breathlessly. A solidly built man was sitting on him and grunting as he twisted his elbows even higher. Another man was holding Fandorin's fallen quarry by the hair, forcing his head back and up.

On looking more closely, the State Counsellor saw that the unexpected assistance had been provided by two of the police agents on duty that evening.

'You see, Erast Petrovich, even the Okhranka can come in useful sometimes,' an amiable voice said out of the darkness.

There proved to be a gateway close by, and standing in it was none other than Evstratii Pavlovich Mylnikov in person.

'Why are you here?' the State Counsellor asked, and then answered his own question. 'You stayed to follow me.'

'Not so much you, Your Honour - you're an individual far above suspicion; more the general course of events.' The head of the plain-clothes squad came out from the shadows on to the illuminated pavement. 'We were particularly curious to see whether you would go off anywhere with that fiery young hussy. My belief is that you decided to win her over with the carrot rather than the stick. And quite right too. The foolhardy ones like that only turn vicious under direct pressure and insults. You have to avoid rubbing them up the wrong way, stroke them with the fur, stroke them, and as soon as they roll over - go for their soft underbelly!'

Evstratii Pavlovich laughed and held up one palm in a conciliatory gesture, as if to say:
Don't bother to deny it, I wasn't born yesterday.

'When I saw the young lady leave alone, I almost sent my dunderheads after her, and then I thought no, I'll wait a bit. His Honour is a man of the world, with a keen nose. If he's staying back, he has something in mind. And sure enough - soon this character turns up.' Mylnikov nodded at the arrested man, who was howling in pain and cursing. 'So it turns out I was right after all. Who is he?'

'Apparently a member of the Combat Group,' Erast Petrovich replied, feeling indebted to this obnoxious but far from stupid collegiate assessor.

Evstratii Pavlovich whisded and slapped himself on the thigh: 'Good old Mylnikov! He knew which horse to back, all right. When you write your report, don't forget this humble servant of God. Hey, lads, call for a sleigh! Give over twisting his arms, or he won't be able to write a confession.'

One of the agents ran for the sleigh and the other clicked a pair of handcuffs on to the recumbent man's wrists.

'You can go whistle for your confession,' the prisoner hissed.

It was well after midnight before Erast Petrovich reached the Department of Security. First he had had to attend to Larionov, who was bleeding to death. When he got back to the apartment, Fandorin found the engineer already unconscious. By the time the carriage he summoned by telephone from the Hospital of the Society of Fraternal Love finally arrived, there was no longer any point in taking the wounded man away. It had been a pointless waste of time. And the State Counsellor had had to make his own way to Bolshoi Gnezdikovsky Lane on foot - at that hour of the night he hadn't met a single cab.

The quiet side street was completely dark, only the windows of the familiar two-storey building were aglow with cheerful light. The Department of Security had no time for sleeping tonight.

Once inside, Erast Petrovich witnessed a curious scene. Mylnikov was concluding his analysis of the evening's operation. All sixteen agents were lined up against the wall of the long corridor and the collegiate assessor was prowling softly along the ranks like some huge cat, admonishing them in a calm, measured voice, like a teacher in front of his class.

'Let me repeat that again, so that you blockheads will finally remember it. When detaining a group of political suspects, proceed as follows. First - stun them. Break in, making a din, yelling and banging and crashing, so you set their knees knocking. Even a brave man freezes when he's taken by surprise.

Second - immobilise them. Make sure every single detainee is rooted to the spot and can't even move a finger, let alone open their mouths. Third - search them for weapons. Did you do that? Ah? You, Guskov, it's you I'm asking; you were the senior man at the raid.' Mylnikov stopped in front of a middle-aged plain-clothes man with red slime streaming out of his flattened nose.

'Evstratii Pavlovich, Your Honour,' Guskov boomed. 'They was only small fry, snot-nosed kids, that was obvious straight off. Got a seasoned eye, I have.'

'I'll give you another one in that eye of yours,' the collegiate assessor said amicably. 'Don't even try to think, you numskull. Just do it right. And the fourth thing - keep a close watch on all the detainees all the time. But you sloppy dunces go and let a young lady take a pop-gun out of her reticule and none of you even see it. Right, then ...' Mylnikov clasped his hands behind his back and swayed back on his heels.

The agents waited for his verdict with baited breath.

'Only Shiryaev and Zhulko will receive gratuities. Fifteen roubles each, from me personally, for the arrest of a dangerous terrorist. And that goes in the official orders. As for you, Guskov, it's a ten-rouble fine. And one month's demotion from senior agent to the ranks. I reckon as that's fair, don't you?'

'I'm sorry, Your Honour,' said the punished man, hanging his head. 'Only don't take me off operations work. I'll make it up to you, I swear to God.'

All right, I believe you.'

Mylnikov turned towards Erast Petrovich and pretended to have only just noticed him.

'Delightful of you to drop in, Mr Fandorin. Pyotr Ivanovich and Zubtsov have been chatting with our friend for the best part of an hour and getting nowhere.'

'He refuses to talk?' the State Counsellor asked as he followed Mylnikov up the narrow winding stairs.

'On the contrary. He's a cocky one. I listened for a bit and then left. Nothing's going to come of it anyway. After what happened today Pyotr Ivanovich's nerves are a bit jittery. And then he's a bit vexed it was you and me as nabbed such a big fish,' Evstratii Pavlovich added in conspiratorial tones, half-turning round as he spoke.

They were conducting the interrogation in the boss's office. Fandorin's jovial acquaintance was sitting on a chair in the middle of the spacious room. It was a special chair, massive, with straps on the two front legs and the armrests. The prisoner's arms and legs were strapped down so tight that he could only move his head. The commanding officer of the Department of Security was standing on one side of him, and standing on the other was a lean gentleman of rather agreeable appearance who looked about twenty-seven, with a narrow English moustache.

Burlyaev scowled as he nodded to Fandorin and complained: 'A hardened villain. I've been flogging away for an hour now, and all for nothing. He won't even tell us his name.'

'What meaning has my name for thee?' the impudent prisoner asked the Lieutenant Colonel in a soulful voice. 'My darling, it will perish in a doleful murmur.'

Paying no attention to this insolent remark, the Lieutenant Colonel introduced the other man: 'Sergei Vitalievich Zubtsov. I told you about him.'

The lean man bowed respectfully and smiled at Erast Petrovich in an extremely affable manner.

'Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr Fandorin. And even more delighted to be working with you.'

Aha,' the prisoner exclaimed in delight. 'Fandorin! That's right; now I see the grey temples. Didn't spot them before, I was in too much of a hurry. Why are you just standing there, gentlemen? Seize him, he killed that old ass Khrapov!' He laughed, delighted with his own joke.

'With your permission, I'll proceed,' Zubtsov said to both of his superiors and turned to face the criminal. All right, we know you're a member of the Combat Group and you were involved in the assassination of General Khrapov. You have just implicidy admitted that you were in possession of a description of the State Counsellor's appearance. We also know that your accomplices are in Moscow at present. Even if the prosecution is unable to prove your involvement in the assassination, you are still facing the severest possible penalty. You killed a man and offered armed resistance to representatives of the law. That is quite enough to send you to the gallows.'

Unable to restrain himself, Burlyaev interrupted: 'Do you realise, you scum, that you're going to dangle at the end of a rope? It's a terrible way to die, I've seen it more than once. First the man starts croaking and thrashing about. Sometimes for as long as fifteen minutes - it all depends how the knot's tied. Then his tongue flops out of his gullet, his eyes pop out of his skull and all the filth drains out of his belly. Remember the Bible, about Judas? 'And falling headlong he burst asunder in the midst and all his bowels gushed out.'"

Zubtsov cast a reproachful glance at Burlyaev: he evidently felt that these were the wrong tactics.

The prisoner responded lightheartedly to the threatening words: 'So what, I'll croak a bit and then stop. I'll be beyond caring then, but afterwards you'll have to clean up my shit. That's what your job is, fat-face.'

The Lieutenant Colonel struck the defiant man a sharp, crunching blow in the mouth.